


the story of us

by princegrantaire



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashpoint (DCU), M/M, Male Friendship, Married Couple, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-08-17 03:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 6,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: During that long moment in which Bruce remains both unhugged and untackled to the ground, it occurs to him something’s missing. Someone, in fact.---collection of drabbles originally posted on tumblr. various pairings. preview is from one of the bruce/joker stories.





	1. bruce/joker

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ufonaut !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "mini batjokes prompt.... bruce coming back from a jl mission and confused why joker is mad"

It’s late enough that even Tim’s gone to bed and the faint flutter of wings is quite literally the only sound left to fill the cave.  _Unnerving_  isn’t the kind of adjective Bruce reserves for much of anything but nothing else comes to mind. He steps out of the car with vague trepidation.

The league’s latest space mission’s left him exhausted and aching all over. During that long moment in which Bruce remains both unhugged and untackled to the ground, it occurs to him something’s missing.  _Someone_ , in fact.

Now that he’s noticed it, he can’t get it out of his mind. Joker’s left a sort of physical absence behind. He, at the very least, must be awake. He always is.

Bruce takes off his cowl, sets it down carefully on the nearest worktable and considers the possibilities. It might’ve been about two days since he’d last talked to anyone back home but the boys had known he was coming today. Bruce distinctly remembers the problem of the open grave in the backyard and the brief sense of peace he’d fallen into when Joker had agreed to stop digging.

And, just like that, a fit of laughter nearly overtakes Bruce. It’s not– it hadn’t sounded all that strange at the time. Hell, it doesn’t sound strange  _now_.

He rubs his eyes, yawns, methodically strips down to the undersuit. It’s either blood or sweat that’s made him sticky, Bruce is too tired to tell as he makes his way up. Common sense compels him to check any cabinets and cupboards he finds on the long walk to the bedroom. The last option remains his own wardrobe.

Joker stumbles out of the wardrobe as the door is flung open and seems to prefer the floor to Bruce’s hopeful embrace. Lack of makeup only serves to accentuate the gauntness of a ghost-white face and Joker’s not wearing much besides a faded pair of Batman boxers and a too-big shirt that’s never belonged to him. Bruce’s missed him so much he can’t breathe.

“Hey,” he says, easy smile, soft around the edges with exhaustion.

All that provokes out of Joker is a quick scramble to get back into the wardrobe.

“ _Hey_!”

Comfort can only be found in the fact that Joker can’t actually close the door all the way from the inside. Bruce wonders, distantly, whose help he’d enlisted that first time. It’s worth investigating. Bruce yawns again. It’s worth investigating  _later_.

“Joker.” Not quite Batman’s voice but that’s force of habit even after more than enough years together. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re back,” comes Joker’s mostly muffled reply, none too happy about it. “You’re back and you didn’t tell  _me_  you were coming back.”

“I told Dick,” Bruce offers. “He told you, right?”

“He did,” Joker agrees. “ _You_  didn’t.”

Ah.

Bruce sighs and opens the door again. “Sorry,” he says, really means it too. “Enough room in there for me?”

“No.”

Joker scoots aside anyway.


	2. joker/eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "OKAY... JOKER AND EDDIE #32... WHO IS WAKING WHO... WHOM KNOWS
> 
> #32 kissing to wake up"

There’s a pair of skinny arms wrapped around Eddie’s waist. It’s no less startling than the cold nose pressed against the back of his neck, accompanied by steady breathing and the faintly overpowering stench of chemicals. All signs point to–

Well, it  _can’t_  be.

Eddie’s fairly certain he’d gone to bed alone, like he always does – green pyjamas buttoned up as far as they’d go, a glass of water on his nightstand, the various pills Arkham finds it necessary for him to take spread out neatly in their miniature bottles for the following morning. Hence:  _the usual_.

And yet that tangle of limbs persists.

Stiff as a board, Eddie glances down with all the enthusiasm of a death march. The sliver of skin peeking in-between purple sleeves and dirty gloves is ghost-white and covered in more scars than anyone would care to count.

“Joker,” he whispers, breathless and feeling absurd.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say Joker’s hold on him tightens for the briefest of moments. It’s been months, maybe more, since any attempt at physical contact has extended beyond a quick succession of punches. The fact that Eddie might, possibly, be on the cusp of enjoying himself is entirely irrelevant. All the same, he can’t extract himself from this perilous position.

“Joker,” Eddie repeats and it’s no longer a whisper. He does his best to turn around. Without a hint of mania and deep in the recesses of sleep, Joker looks too pale and too thin to be anything other than a corpse. Eddie shudders without quite knowing why. “Did you break into my apartment?”  
  
The answer is an obvious and resounding  _yes_ , even if it’s just implied. It’s happened before, Joker’s always cited an urgent need for companionship as the cause, but that’s never made it any more reassuring.

Eddie thinks he’d quite enjoy a total lack of clowns anywhere near him. 

In spite of whatever Eddie thinks or doesn’t think, Joker’s still not waking up and no amount of poking, prodding or speaking seems to be getting him any closer to that precipice. The one solution that occurs to him veers towards the unimaginably horrifying.

Another ten minutes quite firmly establish that it’s worth the risk. Eddie licks his lips, stares at Joker and something in his chest constricts. It’s disgust. Clearly.

It takes everything he’s got to close the gap between them and press his lips against Joker’s. In the grand scheme of things, it’s barely a kiss. 

It _is_ , however, the most Eddie’s ever had.

Just like that, Joker’s eyes flutter open and he’s kissing back in the half a second it takes Eddie to pull away. It’s entirely disconcerting how even Joker’s subconscious seems intent on humiliating him.

“Why did  _that_  wake you up?!” Eddie manages to gasp out somewhere along his efforts of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Joker shrugs, looking satisfied enough, and stretches. “I don’t know about you, Eddie, ol’ pal, but that’s definitely one of the times I’ve slept this year!”

“Ugh.”


	3. bruce/joker + tim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "mini fic idea: vaguely batjokes, joker showing off his new son TIMBERLY to the rest of the rouges at the iceberg lounge"

Joker looks  _so_  genuinely affectionate in the split second it takes him to push a kid past the Iceberg Lounge’s permanently revolving door, Harvey allows himself a moment to stare. He usually doesn’t, not where Joker’s concerned. It’s best not to encourage the clown.

A short argument follows but seems to pass mostly unnoticed by tonight’s select clientele, Harvey can’t get too good a look at it either. The kid sort of flails in his oversized hoodie and makes quick work of disentangling his sleeve from Joker’s hold, looking small and maybe a little lost next to the unnervingly tall and gaunt figure Joker cuts.

It’s absurd and just a little bit worrying that Joker’s next words appear to be  _please_. Whatever this is, and Harvey’s interest hasn’t abandoned him yet, it sure as hell isn’t a kidnapping.

To his credit, Joker’s only mildly apologetic as he grabs the kid’s hand and proceeds to walk straight into Oswald’s table. Harvey pats himself down for his gun, just in case. It looks like they’ve finally gotten enough attention for Joker’s taste.

“Oh, hi, guys!” Joker waves with his free hand, like the last time he’s been seen around the lounge wasn’t more than a year ago. It’s half the reason Harvey’s willing to give him the benefit of doubt. “This is my new son –” And he pauses there for a second, swinging wildly between anxious and proud, “–  _TIMBERLY_!”

Tim Drake.

Harvey’s eyes go wide. At least the one that still can does.

The kid is, indeed, Tim Drake. One of Bruce’s latest orphans, from what Harvey’s pieced together. There’s a distant ache here and Harvey lights another cigar, frowns as he watches. A number of confused looks are exchanged among the present rogues.

“My name’s Tim actually,” the kid –  _Tim_  – mumbles, still trying to escape Joker’s grip, though he looks comfortable enough, significantly more at ease than anyone in their right mind should be around Joker. Maybe he hasn’t seen the worst of it. Harvey could show him.

 _Two-Face_  could show him. He shakes his head.

“Is he even old enough to be in here?” Harvey asks. 

It’s the least of his worries.

Joker gasps and pulls Tim close. “How old are you, kiddo?” Either Joker’s incapable of whispering or he’s not trying too hard, Harvey tends to lean towards the former.

“Seventeen–”

“Seventy!” Joker declares, quite serious, and starts pulling Tim towards the nearest unoccupied table.

Nygma starts laughing first, most of the others follow, it’s hard not to. Harvey himself feels tempted, especially once he knocks back his drink. It’s more than temptation when he catches a glimpse of Joker’s utterly confused face.


	4. clark & bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "for the drabble request.... clark picking up bruce like that wombat or a big ol CHUMBY cat who does not expect to be picked up"

Gotham, his winding city of implausible labyrinths, is still preferable to the clean-cut lines of Metropolis. Bruce doesn’t loathe the Hall of Justice entirely nor its permanent residence in the latter city, he just–

He misses the constant hum of monitors, the abyss of space looking back at him, reflections rendered unrecognisable by darkness alone. The Watchtower, he thinks, is what the league’s headquarters are  _meant_  to be. All show, don’t tell. None of the grand marble arches  _he_  doesn’t deserve.

Clark, on the other hand, looks right at home in the light of day, lounging in mid-air effortlessly, as if it doesn’t take everything Bruce’s got to even  _be_  here when he could have done this from the Batcomputer in the comfort of his own home.

They’re the only ones in the hall today, sorting through endless case files just because Bruce thinks the recent alien activity in Metropolis looks familiar enough to pass for uncomfortable.

So,  _maybe_ , he’s sabotaged both their days for nothing. 

Bruce nearly aches to explain himself – a foreign instinct, very faint, very human. He simply hadn’t accounted for Diana’s and J’onn’s insistence on doing this  _here_ , with  _Clark_.

“You should take a break,” Clark says. Bruce only stiffens, breathes, sets down the file he’d been holding. He’s waiting for Clark to say it. How much time they’ve wasted here, how it could be Lex and the alien origin is just one wrong hunch after another. Anything at all.

Ever charitable, Clark smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck, like  _he’s_  at loss for words. He’s lucky Gotham sees no need for crime in the daytime.

It’s too early to start praying for any Arkham escapees. Bruce still considers it.

“We don’t have  _time_  for a–” That’s when both their comms start ringing. 

It’s an emergency protocol, that much is obvious from the tone alone, but when Diana informs them half the league is preoccupied, all Bruce and Clark can do is exchange a look. The solution seems obvious. Save for Oliver, who’s already in Star City, they’re the closest.

In an act of faith against Superman, Bruce nearly calls the Batwing.  _Nearly_  because the words are already leaving Clark’s mouth before he can even go through the motions. “Let me fly you there,” he says, earnest.

As if Bruce can afford to refuse.

No one’s ever picked him up before Clark, not since he was a child. It  _shouldn’t_  be possible. Bruce glowers as he positions himself in front of Clark and it only gets worse as he’s picked up from his underarms and flown towards the nearest window, like it’s easy, like it’s  _nothing_.

He can tell Clark’s smiling even without looking at him. It  _is_ convenient, Bruce’s never had the heart to deny that.


	5. bruce/john doe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "John/Bruce au where Bruce can actually afford to take a goddamn break from his detective work (cause for once Gotham is less of a hellhole that needs constant babying) and 1) sleep 2) do stuff unrelated to detective work like letting John drag him to an arcade and losing a whole lot of change on silly fighting games or getting obliterated by John in some very Mario Cart esque racing game."

Bruce doesn’t think he’s particularly likely to, say, lose his  _whole_  fortune in one of those claw machine games. He just thinks that if it were to happen he wouldn’t be legally liable. There’s a difference somewhere in there, shoved between the sheer frustration currently making his life hell and the alarm that seems to play on a loop each time the claw comes back empty-handed.

“Want me to give it a try?” John asks, distracted and still playing air hockey with Iman Avesta. It’s been quite a match, from what Bruce has heard and not quite seen.

“I’m fine,” Bruce insists with all the excitement of the dead.

It’s a rare night off, rarer now that most potential partnerships have been suspended indefinitely. Iman had been a necessity at first, the final part of this skeleton crew he’s managed to gather, but with her job at Wayne Enterprises and the sole fact that she already knew, well, she’s–

A  _friend_. Bruce and John don’t have many of those left.

With that thought in mind and John’s insistence that they deserve to have  _a fun night out_ , he turns back to the claw machine and wishes vaguely for a punch from Bane. It’d be less painful than any of this, he’s sure.

It’s then something hits the back of Bruce’s head, accompanied by a startled exclamation from John and, more importantly, a triumphant ring from the machine.

He’s done it. He’s  _really_  done it.

John rushes over in a heartbeat, full of concerned questions and steadying hands. He shows Bruce the hockey puck that had flown off the table, apologises and repeats the whole process, over and over in the split-second it takes Bruce to turn around, presenting the teddy-bear he’s just won.

Eyes bright and wide, John _squeaks_  and pulls Bruce into a too-tight hug, the bear crushed between them.

“Guys? I thought we were gonna play to win.” Iman is full of amusement though, sounding about as light as Bruce feels right now. Maybe regular nights off _are_ a good idea.


	6. bruce/victor fries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "BRUCE/MR.FREEZE BATMAN#50 AU"

Gotham’s winters are always cruel. High up on Wayne Tower’s gargoyles, Bruce hears nothing but the whipping of the wind and the muffled crunch of boots on the near-frozen snow that’s gathered below. Someone’s coming. He’s stiff as he makes to stand up and knows Selina wouldn’t have  _joked_ , never that but would have certainly said _something_  about it. A sharp remark of a variety that’s never quite made him smile.

Something distant aches in Bruce as he grapples away. Selina left. It’s what she does. The ensuing months haven’t changed any of–

Mr. Freeze isn’t wearing his helmet. The rope tightens as Bruce reaches its end and nearly dives head-first into a building. Catastrophe is avoided out of sheer curiosity, it can’t possibly be cold enough to warrant  _that_  kind of exposure. He jumps down, a blob of black against the city, and lands quite directly in front of his would-be adversary.

“Victor,” Bruce says, a careful act of neutrality despite his racing heart.

“Leave me be, Batman.”

The faint metallic echo of the helmet, abandoned in the snow, gives way to the shallow breathing of a desperate man. No one knows loss like Freeze. Whatever’s compelled him to risk it all, Bruce thinks he’s been there. He might even be there  _now_.

“Victor Fries,” Bruce starts and, despite himself, falls straight into a gesture that’s become familiar. He’s down on one knee before he knows it. “Will you marry–” He coughs, grateful for the cowl. “Will you  _let_  me save your life?”

Bruce thinks he spots the slightest hint of a smile on Victor’s sharp, white-blue face before he dives for the helmet. No one’s dying on his watch.


	7. bruce/joker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "batjokes + openly married au"

“Are you… are you  _nervous_?”

The kick to the stomach is entirely worth it, even if Bruce grunts with the force of it. Joker looks like he’s smiling at least.  _That’s_  never been a problem before.

“Believe it or not, I am capable of it,” comes Joker’s reply, muffled on account of the pillow currently pressed tight against his face. Bruce is planning on intervening as soon as suffocation starts looking like a real possibility. “My debut needs to be–”

“Perfect. I know.” Bruce has heard this speech about a hundred times, he even tried to offer  _actual_  solutions the first twenty times. “People  _do_  already know you,” he adds, just in case it works this time. “I’m just saying.”

“Not as your–” Some frankly inexplicable gestures follow. There’s a chance Joker’s just waving his hands around for his dramatic sensibilities alone.

“Partner.” They’ve got a good thing going with the whole finishing each other’s sentences gimmick. Bruce, for one, thinks that’s a staple of any solid relationship. “I  _know_.”

“Husband,” Joker concludes. “As your husband. What’s everyone gonna think?!” He kicks out at Bruce again but the twinge of panic has steadily been replaced by growing amusement, stained by shades of fondness that’s quickly becoming a familiar comfort.

“They’re going to think that I’m absolutely  _scandalous_.” And it’s Bruce biting back a laugh now. “Can you please get dressed?”

A pillow hits him squarely in the face. Joker’s marksmanship is  _entirely_  impressive and, simultaneously, _entirely_ worth it too when his skinny arms come to wrap around Bruce. They melt into a soft kiss, hazy around the edges with the sheer warmth of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder i'm @ufonaut on tumblr! hope you enjoyed these <3


	8. flashpoint thomas wayne/joker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is set during #50 at the annual meeting of the ‘ruin bruce’s life’ committee (aka that big ol gathering with all the villains we see at the end of #50)

The Batman who isn’t Batman, which is to say: the Batman with the red eyes that is supposedly different from his–  _Oh_ , Joker’s getting confused now. Batman’s approaching, that’s what he’s meant to understand here, he’s quite sure of it.

And what an unnerving figure he cuts! Joker abandons his conversation with Eddie, stops, watches – somewhere on the sunnier side of transfixed – and wonders rather rationally where, exactly, had Bane found his newest right-hand man. It’s the kind of thing Joker can appreciate despite himself.

“So, you’re the Joker, huh?” Not-Batman says, warmer than Joker expects, smiling wide and open.

It’s decidedly…  _odd_.

“That’s me,” Joker agrees. “Who’s asking?” he adds, gives a little wave for good measure and sort of tries to stifle any traces of suspicion while he’s at it. Well, it’s only natural. There’s very little that could prove itself more suspicious than clandestine meetings in the asylum’s basement.

In one of the asylum’s basement _s_ , in fact. Arkham’s innovative like that.

For all his inexplicable posturing and spiky shoulders, Not-Batman just studies him for a moment. Joker can’t help fidgeting under this sudden scrutiny. “You remind me of my wife,” Not-Batman declares at last and Joker nearly drops the knife he’d been riffling through his pockets for.

Joker blinks once. Twice. Three times.

Tilts his head.

It’s surprise or shock or some heady combination of both. “I–  _What_.” Barely a question, Joker’s not capable of thinking that far ahead just yet.

“Oh, I said you remind me of my wife,” Not-Batman repeats, which is, coincidentally, exactly what Joker had heard the first time around. He’s never reminded anyone of anything, let alone of their wives. If it’s a joke, it’s a remarkably incomprehensible one.

“Are you s-sure?” is all Joker manages, overcome as he is by forces beyond his control.

Not-Batman smiles again and it’s really quite kind, quite far away too. “Here, lemme just show you,” he decides, no less eager as he pulls a leather wallet out of his utility belt, fast enough that it can’t be anything other than a calculated movement. Joker stares and finds it hard to understand what universe he seems to have stepped into.


	9. eddie + bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

The thing about Eddie’s apartment is that it tends to be– spotless. Yeah, that sounds about right. Bruce in his twenties couldn’t have managed it. Bruce  _right now_  couldn’t manage it. So, consequently, he’s always faintly impressed.

And that has to be why, Bruce reasons, it’s something of a struggle not to simply stop and stare as he walks in. The place looks like it’s been ransacked. In a moment of clarity, he shuts the door behind him. The disaster follows a clear trail – unnerving in itself, Eddie’s rarely violent, less so when he’s just orchestrated a clean break after too many months in Arkham.

Bruce half expects to find Joker in there, full of unwanted friendship and too casual affection. It’s happened before. What the half-open bedroom door reveals instead is Eddie himself, huddled in a corner, off-white Arkham jumpsuit thoroughly bloodstained.

“Edward,” Bruce says as he steps inside, barely recognising Batman’s register. Batman doesn’t seem–

 _Necessary_. Not here.

“Edward,” he repeats. “What happened?”

Up close, there’s a slight tremor running through Eddie’s skinny form. His hands, too, are bloodstained. Bruce can’t help missing the familiar sight of purple gloves. “Eddie,” he finally says. “Eddie, you can talk to me.”

“I didn’t want to– The guards–” Eddie keeps shaking his head, gasped words stumbling one over the other. “I’m sorry, I  _had_  to–”

Bruce’s own gloves come off. He does stare now, hesitates for a few seconds too long before he grasps Eddie’s bloodied hands. “Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore,” is all he can offer.


	10. bruce + selina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt “Please put your penis away.” because @slaapkat held me at gunpoint and made me write batcat

“Easy there, cowboy, please put your penis away,” comes Selina’s familiar voice as she hauls herself through the window. Her goggles are askew and Bruce fights a fond smile, all soft around the edges. He lifts the duvet briefly, just to check if there’s really anything to put away, and is greeted by black briefs.  _Score_.

Bruce allows himself the honour of sitting up in bed. “Hey? Cat?” he asks, faintly rough with sleep and no less affectionate because of it.

“Hmm?” Selina doesn’t look up from where she’s going through the pockets of a pair of pants he must’ve left on the floor. She very carefully extracts a wallet and goes through its contents with what might be mistaken for disinterest.

“Whatcha doin’?” Dangerous question, he knows. Bruce is content enough to watch, doesn’t quite want to disrupt the flow of whatever work Selina’s thrown herself into tonight.

“Oh.” A shrug. “Nothing, I guess.” Selina shoves into her backpack more than half the small fortune Bruce carries in cash at all times, puts the wallet back where she found it and only gets close enough to ruffle Bruce’s hair. “Later, Bat.”

“I’ll text you!” Bruce just about manages to shout as she disappears into the night.


	11. bruce/john

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "Wait, my hero’s secret identity is… you? To be honest, I’d always kind of hoped…"

John knows, and that means  _really_ knows, the voice beneath the modulator. The faint tilt of a head when confusion intervenes, eyes or, in this case, lenses puppy dog-wide. It’s strange to see Bruce’s gestures on Batman. Stranger still to understand there’s just one answer here.

It goes unspoken.

“Do you have the laptop?” Batman tries again, gruff though John swears he can hear that familiar hint of– affection. He steps away from the Bat-Signal like an errant child.

“Well,” John starts and can quite honestly says he doesn’t know where he’s going, “I… I kind of promised it to my best buddy Bruce and I don’t want to disappoint him?”

It’s a question as much as it’s a gamble, an unintended one at that.

Batman draws in a shuddering breath, looks tired even with the cowl on and John feels some pinprick of guilt. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe he’s standing in the way of justice. Would Bruce have put it that way? He’s found himself stricken by an odd sort of anxiety, urgently heartbreaking.

“John. You won’t disappoint him.”

Oh, god. It’s him. It  _must_ be him.

John’s never known relief like this. He’d always hoped.

“I’ll bring you the laptop tomorrow,” he finds himself saying. It’s a promise this time.


	12. eddie/joker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine."

“–and I says to him, no way I remind you of your wife ‘cause don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m the only real clown around these… Hey!” Joker very graciously, which is to say: not at all, extracts his hand from Eddie’s sudden grip. “What’s that all about?”

They’re in a closet. Leslie Thompkins’ closet to be exact. The clinic in the Narrows is closed exactly one night a year, and even then on special request. It’s either fireworks or gunshots they’re still hearing in the distance. Joker feels only a faint air of annoyance towards the window he’d been thrown clean through.

In all fairness, he’d quite explicitly asked for it. Picking a lock would’ve been too time-consuming and time’s the one thing they don’t have.

Time. And band-aids.

The miniature gashes extending all across Joker’s arms and one particularly lucky cheekbone sting faintly and make Eddie’s insistent proximity all that more frustrating. He’s  _warm_  like Joker himself never is, sitting too close to pass for friendly.

“Isn’t this great? You and me against the world,” Eddie says and manoeuvres one of Joker’s hands – it occurs to him he’s lost a glove along the way – to press against his bare chest, right in the middle of the question mark carved there all those months ago. “That’s all for you.”

Joker’s fingers spread out before he can help it. There’s Eddie’s heartbeat underneath his palm. There’s a police siren’s call approaching. Familiar and not. They’ve never been this far before.

He giggles and traces the contours of a heart around the scar with his own bloodied fingers. “No question about it now,” Joker whispers, though he won’t meet that bright stare directed at him and no one else. He can feel it, that’s enough. “Batman’s gonna be here soon, isn’t he?” follows a moment later because Joker’s never met a conversation he hasn’t ruined via Caped Crusader.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, scoots closer and tilts Joker’s chin up.

Right here and now, suffocating amounts of Eddie’s most obnoxiously overpowering cologne don’t quite agree with his sense of smell. The whole closet already stinks of it. Joker himself is faintly sweaty and he hasn’t been able to feel the leg currently stuck under Eddie in the past fifteen minutes. 

It’s  _perfect_.

The door’s wrenched open just as he’s about to lean in.


	13. bruce/joker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "I’ve never seen anything like the way you handled that. I’m just so moved."

Bruce blinks. Once. Twice. Slow like molasses, only faintly comprehending what he’s seeing.  “Um,” he gets out and holds out hope for another handful of painkillers. When nothing comes, he makes another unidentified sound and sort of flops lifelessly on Joker.

The movement, relaxed as it is, jolts a most-likely-broken arm and Bruce grits his teeth against that momentary flash of pain. Croc’s not been too fond of him lately, that’s for sure. If nothing else, Joker doesn’t seem to be doing too well either, wind thoroughly knocked out of him in light of recent events. 

“Why’re you so pointy,” Bruce says and doesn’t  _ask_. There’s a frankly worryingly sharp elbow digging into his side, though with how woozy he’s suddenly found himself it makes little difference in the grand scheme of things digging into him.

Joker giggles, strained with the weight on top of him, and wiggles underneath Bruce, just enough to understand there’s no hope of escape here.

“Someone’s gotta be,” is the one retort in his repertoire. He pokes Bruce’s cheek, maybe to punctuate that brilliant statement. “How about gettin’ off me, handsome?”

It’s Bruce’s turn to fall straight into a laughing fit that lasts just until it sets Joker off too. That, of course, does little but make him ache all over and long for that extra handful of painkillers all over again. “Okay, okay, lemme– lemme try,” he gasps out, tries to roll over and–

And nothing happens.

“Hmm.” Bruce nuzzles against Joker, amused still. “Might need your help.”

It takes approximately fifteen minutes, though Bruce can only attest to the vaguest recollection of time, for Joker to succeed in pushing him off to the other side of bed. Bruce’s been moved to tears in the meantime. Beyond that, he’s unbearably grateful that he’s not bounced right off the bed.

“I’ve never seen anything like the way you handled that,” he admits, so very genuine that he can do little but reach out for Joker’s hand.


	14. bruce/john

Bruce isn’t, despite his best efforts, good with affection. Easy intimacy, and even that in name alone, requires planning and courage the likes of which even Batman can only rarely offer.

So. It’s been–

They’ve been taking it easy. Hand-holding in the privacy of John’s cramped little room is awe-inspiring even now, months after a tentative first kiss and not a word spoken about it. It’s always John’s left hand, of course. The right is to be avoided. Bruce takes good care that it appears perfectly natural, mere coincidence, no tangible blurring of memory and guilt.

He’s thought about it. In detail. The scar he’s likely to find there. Or, worse, the festering wound. That’s how it always looks in Bruce’s nightmares, the kind of torments in the dark leave him breathless and clammy for hours to come.

But nevermind  _that_.

John’s leg keeps brushing against his where they’re pressed up together, Bruce can count even the faintest point of contact, and he’s gesturing as he talks, halfway through a story about the rec room’s lost remote and the unlikely culprit. Bruce can’t focus. John gestures as he talks, always does, but the magic of recurring nightmares dictates that there’s only been one thing on Bruce’s mind since he’s woken up. Each disorienting glimpse proves too much.

“Does it still hurt?” he finds himself asking and regrets the interruption in a heartbeat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

No guards burst into the room. Arkham doesn’t sink into its catacombs. Bruce, against all odds, manages to draw in one last sharp breath. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. It’s distant. He can’t hear–  _anything_ over his own heartbeat. It’s not too hard to picture now, the ACE Chemicals control room and all that entails. “John, I’m–”

“–Sorry,” John finishes. “I know.” He’s cupping Bruce’s face, both hands, scar rough against his cheek. “I’m sorry, too.”

It’s not so hard to breathe then. There are three words Bruce can’t quite get out. He smiles.


	15. bruce/silver

The room spins as Bruce lies down on the bed, heavily, as if the act itself takes more than he can give. As a general rule, he doesn’t do  _this_. None of this. “C’mere, please,” he hears himself say and finds it quite impossible to determine how that happened.

“I would,  _DeeDee_ , but some of us still have shoes on.” Only a sliver of Silver’s amusement manages to shine through, mostly overshadowed by frustration and the strappy heels that still refuse to cooperate.

Under any other circumstances, Bruce would help. Honest, he  _would_. It’s just that moving isn’t anywhere close to a possibility just now.

And he’s still got a shirt he’s trying to unbutton. An endeavour so unbearably important, it requires more than ninety percent of Bruce’s concentration and even that veers towards insufficient. Maybe those last couple shots  _hadn’t_ been such a good idea, with or without Dick’s interminable reassurances that Gotham will not burn to the ground in his absence. That’s doubtful, still.

Speaking of, the shirt gets abandoned in favour of checking his phone and Bruce can’t help smiling at the selfie he’s just been texted. It’s Dick and Tim and one of the gargoyles near… Park Row, he wants to say, though that, too, is doubtful at this very moment.

Bruce gives a faint  _oof_ as Silver jumps and lands directly on him. It’s a move so spectacularly executed, Bruce needs nearly a full minute to recover and shove the phone in her face. 

“It’s Timmy’s birthday tomorrow,” he mumbles, either proud that he’s remembered even now or proud of his boy, and very carefully presses a clumsy kiss to Silver’s forehead. She’s busy cooing at the picture anyway, fond of the kids like she’s always been.

“Baby, are you planning a party?” Silver looks so abruptly concerned by the notion, Bruce simply  _has_ to lean up and kiss her, off-centre but so very sincere.

If Bruce’s answer is affirmative, he can’t possibly tell. Another distraction intervenes. His hands have wandered over to Silver’s stomach, exposed by her crop top, faintly cold from the chill outside and an instance on a fur coat left open. He giggles, can’t help it. “Tummy,” Bruce whispers and giggles again.

Silver, for her part, hardly seems to mind it. A moment later, she’s laughing so hard she has to hide her face in Bruce’s neck.

It’s too late – or, too early, depending on one’s standards alone – and the penthouse might be lacking in neighbours but a certain instinct to be quiet still persists. They kiss again then, smiling through it.

“Happy anniversary, Bruce.” 

It’s a soft murmur, testament to the warmth stretching between them.

“Happy anniversary, Silver.”


	16. eddie & barbara

“Is it… Kate?” 

Barbara snorts, shakes her head and so very graciously doesn’t attempt to wipe that smarmy smile off the Riddler’s face. An exercise in futility, of course. “You’re barking up the wrong tree there, pal,” she says and thinks of Kate Kane’s incomprehensible amount of luck just now.

That might as well be the one thing an agonising half-hour in the interrogation room has managed to confirm. She’s certainly the only Bat _girl_  with a crazed criminal lusting after her, whatever Bruce’s got with the Joker notwithstanding.

“Hmm. No, no, of course not.” If there’s disappointment staining a mostly conversational tone, Riddler doesn’t let linger. Barbara groans.

“Enough!” Barbara doesn’t mean to shout, or, for that matter, slam her hands on the table. Not that it makes it any more satisfying when Riddler doesn’t even flinch, when he looks intrigued, like she’s a puzzle to be solved. “Enough with the name guessing. Tell me when Penguin’s shipment’s coming in and you’re free to go,  _Eddie_.”

“See!” Riddler makes an aborted attempt at some sort of gesture and finds himself foiled by handcuffs. Barbara allows herself one of those rare smiles in her line of work. “You’re breaking the  _rules_. You know my name, Batgirl, but I don’t know yours. Isn’t that terrible?”

“No.”

There’s that look again. “Is it Barbara?” Riddler asks. “I bet it is, bet your friends call your Barbie because of the–”

And there goes a final hint of composure.

Barbara punches Riddler. Square in the face. No guilt to be found here, no explanations either.

“So, it’s Barbara, huh?” Faintly muffled, on account of Riddler clutching his now-bleeding nose. She quite desperately wants to scream.


	17. flashpoint thomas wayne/joker

“It’s the candles, isn’t it?” Thomas sighs. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone for black candles, I  _knew_ it! I thought it’d might go with the whole… basement atmosphere but I don’t really  _do_ romance these days and–”

Joker picks up a candle and bites a chunk out of it. “I think the candles are wonderful, Mr., uh, Wayne.”

Disregarding any measure of politeness, Thomas finds it nothing less than impossible not to stare as Joker chews and swallows then, inexplicably, takes another bite. Joker looks–

 _Anxious_.

Those are the wild eyes and barely restrained panic of a cornered raccoon. A phenomenon Thomas is familiar with, on account of a number of nights spent in a certain alley after the accident… no, the  _incident_ , just on the off chance that he might hear Martha laugh again. No luck there. Just raccoons.

He smiles. “You’re not just saying that?” He reasons, quite rationally, that if  _the_ Joker were inclined to leave, he simply would. “And please, call me Thomas.”

“No, Mr. Wayne, they’re great candles!” Strained enthusiasm, certainly, but it doesn’t stop Joker from eating the rest of his candle in peace. There’s a perfectly adequate meal, courtesy of the Arkham cafeteria after dark, right in front of him.

Thomas is considering trying it for himself when Joker reaches for his hand across the table. Neither is wearing gloves, a rarity in itself, but Joker’s bony hand is still ghost-white against his, cold like the grave. Thomas is  _delighted_.

“Is this a date?” Joker asks. It seems to have taken him approximately a full hour to reach this conclusion, the weeks where Thomas has been merely flirting notwithstanding.

It’s not easy, right then and there, to come up with an answer resembling appropriate. Thomas thoughtfully puts out a candle and bites it. “If you want it to be?” is what he finally settles on. It’s worth it, it  _has_ to be. Thomas isn’t looking to replace Martha, never that, but Joker’s company is nice and, well, he really does remind him of his wife.

Joker shrugs. “Bane is still here, right?”

The faint green glow of the tubes of venom sticking out of Bane’s back certainly give him away. Thomas sighs, again. So much for romance.

“He’s– He’s meditating,” Thomas says. It’s even true.

“Ah.”


	18. bruce/joker

“Does that hurt?” Joker asks then very deliberately pokes at the bruise on Bruce’s hip again – a darkening glimmer on otherwise somewhat pale skin, glimpsed between the waistband of his boxers and a hitched up shirt.

For his part, Bruce tends towards dangerously unimpressed. “What do you think?”

Joker considers that very carefully then presses down again. It’s nothing too cruel, more like tender curiosity in the early hours of the morning. “I think…  _I_  think Bane should slow down.” He nods sagely, satisfied with his conclusion, and turns just enough to kiss Bruce’s cheek, faintly marked by stubble and no less pleasing.

It’s been a while since they’ve gotten to indulge in the allure of intimacy. Bruce’s close to nodding off, Joker can tell and doesn’t bother delaying the inevitable. It’s  _nice_ as it is, no need to long for more.

“It was Croc, actually.” Bruce throws an arm around Joker’s shoulders and pulls him impossibly close, fond, content to breathe each other in.

“Well, if it was  _Croc_ –” Joker cuts himself off with a giggle.

They kiss, smile against each other’s lips. It’s hard to believe, even now, here, in the manor’s master bedroom. “We can’t blame Croc, can we?” Joker finally says and sort of slides down against Bruce, legs tangled together.

“No, I guess we can’t.”

Bruce is smiling, even as Joker’s clever fingers make a triumphant return to his newest bruise.


	19. bruce/joker

Joker’s cold. He’s fully dressed, of course. 

Pants. Shirt, dutifully buttoned up. Waistcoat. Socks. Jacket? Missing in action.

But he’s  _cold_. Freezing from the inside out, the kind of gut feeling that denotes nothing except disaster. He’s shaking, too, trembling faintly with an inherent sort of anxiety that’s never left. Not that it’s not warranted now.

“You’re mad at me.”

It’s mostly a whisper, remnants of those few moments in his career when he’d understood that Batman meant business and jokes were better left aside. Joker doesn’t quite dare reach for the duvet lying between them. More empty space, with Bruce at the very edge of it.

Maybe it’s not intentional. He doubts it.

“I’m not mad at you, Joker.” Bruce sighs. Tired. He’s  _so_ tired these days. “Let’s just sleep.”

Against any trace of logic, Joker wants to scream, lash out at Bruce, push him into what they both know is coming. It’s been a month, maybe less, since he’s moved in here.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? 

It’s been going well. As well as it can be expected, at any rate. So, naturally, Joker had to go ahead and ruin it all, like he’s done with any other hint of happiness he’d almost managed to hold on to. He knows he’s running out of time, he can  _feel_ it.

He rolls over, finds it necessary to face Bruce’s dejected stare. “Whose room was it?”

Another sigh. Joker’s still freezing.

“Jason’s,” Bruce breathes out, like it hurts. The name reverberates around the room, Joker searches for familiarity.

“Is… that the one that I–”

“Yes.”

 _Oh_.

“Oh,” Joker says. An honest mistake, even back then. It’s no use pointing out the kid’s back. Something like guilt prods at him, uncomfortable. If he wants to apologise, the words live and die on his tongue.

“Good night,” Bruce says, succinct.

It’s not forgiveness but he’s not being kicked out either. Joker doesn’t think he could ask for more.


	20. (fem batjokes) bryce/joker

There’s something of the grave in Joker’s bony form tonight. Her deathly pallor, awash with moonlight, is only broken by the occasional streak of blood. Bryce can count the cuts on her face. Lips. Right above an arched eyebrow. Across one unlucky cheekbone.

She looks–

Her hair’s choppy and uneven, shorter than what Bryce assumes she usually goes for. Coincidentally, a pair of dull and bloody scissors appear to be Joker’s weapon of choice tonight. She wonders if the two are related.

“What happened?” Bryce asks and there’s always a brief hint of surprise here, a startled acknowledgement of the voice modulator.

That’s rarely how she sounds in her head.

Joker stares up at her like it’s the first time she’s seen her, awe and shock and something faintly bitter shining in green eyes. Her Arkham jumpsuit hangs off her oddly, buttoned all the way up, too big and stained already. Sometimes– Sometimes Bryce sees her and can’t be anything other than breathless.

“What happened?” Bryce repeats, aims for compassion and suspects  _the Bat_  doesn’t allow it, as she jumps down into the alley. It’s a dead end. Joker’s not moving, doesn’t even try it.

The fact of the matter is Bryce had dropped her off to Arkham two nights ago, not too worse for wear either. 

It’d been one of her more fun schemes, the easy laughter of the old days. 

Nothing like this.

“I’m not going back,” Joker finally says, hoarse, her eyes dart towards the rooftops, the grip on the scissors tightens. Bryce doesn’t doubt that she could make it out of here, she’s intimately familiar with this kind of determination.

Bryce swallows thickly, considers the mistake she’s making.

Another step brings her face to face with Joker, close enough that she expects the scissors to pierce her armour. Neither moves. Bryce brings up a gloved hand, wipes away some of the blood at the corner of Joker’s mouth. She can’t blink. She can’t breathe.

“You’re free to go,” she manages.


End file.
